


m-o-s-c-o-w

by hoye



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27695279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoye/pseuds/hoye
Summary: Clint's a mercenary with morals pretending to be an average Joe — although, maybe not so average, considering he has the entirety of the Avengers out looking for his ass.Well, Hawkeye's ass.Clint still has hissecretsecret identity to protect him. Right?*Bucky's just grateful the existence of secret identities lets him pretend his life can be some semblance of normal.But the world is a lot smaller than he realizes when he meets "Steven F. Rogers" while he's looking for signs of that mystery archer.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Wade Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 81





	1. we both know what we've got to do

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was randomly inspired by the song "moscow" by autoheart
> 
> (me, writing this months ago and saying i'd finish the whole fic before posting it  
> also me now, getting impatient, definitely not done, but posting it anyway l o l)
> 
> this is marked canon divergence because i cannot keep track of the marvel comic/cinematic universe and i don't care to :-)

There’s lots of reasons Clint likes Moscow — the colorful architecture for one, the sprawling parks filled with dogs for another, the intimate little bars and eateries lining each street (he’d kill a man, for _free_ , mind you, to get some pirozhki) — but one thing he doesn’t like is how unavoidably cold his buttcheeks get when he has to wait on rooftops for his marks to appear.

It’s incredibly annoying, because Clint’s used to extremities getting cold — fingers and toes being the usual victims — but what the fuck is a guy supposed to do about the temperature of his ass?

He’s been all over the world in the last couple of years and somehow, some way, the chill in Moscow manages to nip at his rear end no matter how thick his pants are or the fact that he actually bothers with underwear whenever he has a job here. It wasn’t even this bad in Hell (Norway, not the biblical afterlife) and Hell is fucking freezing half of the year.

“Can you lose a buttcheek to frostbite,” he grumbles to himself, flexing his fingers.

It would probably benefit Clint to wear more layers, especially now that it’s the dead of winter here in Russia, but he doesn’t want to risk messing with his shooting anymore than he has to. Even wearing long sleeves is a bit of a reluctant concession he’s had to make for the sake of paying his bills and keeping his arms attached to his body. 

The chill firmly settles into Clint’s bones at this point and he grits his teeth and tries to trick himself into believing it’s not _that_ cold.

Obviously, it doesn’t work, because actually freezing your ass off is something like #4 on the list of things that are Not-A-Great Feeling, and Clint could fill an entire set of encyclopedias with highly-specific, ultra-uncomfortable, Not-A-Great Feeling feelings. 

Buttcheeks freezing over? 0 out of 10, would not recommend.

If the mark would just leave the fucking hotel, armed body guards in tow or whatever, Clint could finally take the shot and haul ass back to Bed-Stuy, where it’s significantly warmer, and turn himself into a blanket burrito in his crappy apartment without the heater running to save on his utilities, like he normally would when the weather is shit. 

But the mark this time around is a bit trickier to get access to, a lot more paranoid than his usual marks for some reason or other Clint hadn’t cared to learn, and that’s the only reason Clint is sitting in the shadows on a roof. He’s found a decent spot to wait out the mark, in a building across the park from the Hotel Metropol’s entrance, waiting for an opportune moment to shoot the man from afar.

He’s already been waiting for thirteen hours at this point, what’s a couple more?

 _It’s the difference between having ass cheeks left when this is all over_ , he thinks, half-amused, half-pissed. He likes his buttcheeks right where they are, and he has it on good authority that he’s not the only person that feels that way.

 _Focus!_

Right. 

Mark. 

Moscow. 

Murder.

Hey, alliteration is pretty fun.

_FOCUS, CLINT._

He gives himself an aggressive little shake, trying to keep himself warm and also force himself to stay vigilant in case he sights the asshole Nazi he’s supposed to kill sometime tonight.

 _He has to leave eventually_ , Clint chants as a mantra.

Right?

*

“Did all of us really need to come?”

Bucky slumps in his seat along the side of the Quinjet, feeling like a kid getting dragged to church by his parents. He might as well be, at this point. Natasha and Sam would be the parents, since they’re actually responsible and even-keeled in the worst of times, while Steve would be the overbearing older brother who acts like he’s Bucky’s second father-figure. Bruce would be the favorite uncle. Tony could be the excitable and immature younger brother. Or he could be the family dog. 

Hard call to make.

Bucky’s still deciding between the two when Natasha speaks up, startling him.

“That’s kind of the idea behind ‘assembling’.”

He forgets about the Avengers family tree instantly and scowls. “You know what I mean. Why are all of us ‘assembling’ to arrest one guy?”

“That ‘one guy’ could potentially give us a lead on what remains of HYDRA,” Steve says. “We need everyone on board for this.”

“If you say so,” Bucky mutters.

“I do say so,” Steve says, like the asshole he is. God damn his super-soldier hearing.

“Manchurian Candidate over there just doesn’t want to return to Mother Russia,” Tony calls out.

Steve frowns and Natasha looks like she’s finally made up her mind to stab the man (or maybe that’s wishful thinking in Bucky’s interpretation of the Widow’s facial expressions), but Bucky talks before they can do anything overly protective, because he’s had enough of them stepping in on his behalf. 

He grunts. “You’re not wrong.”

“You’ll be fine,” Tony says with a dismissive wave of his hand. Both Steve and Natasha relax, albeit not fully. Bucky just slumps further down in his seat.

“If you say so,” he repeats.

“Hey, I’m never wrong.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes so far back only the whites are visible. “You’re not always right either.”

Tony shrugs. “Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody has those days. Everybody knows what I’m talking about, everybody gets that way,” he says.

Steve tilts his head in confusion and Bucky just grimaces.

“You speakin’ in rhymes now, Stark?” Bucky asks.

Tony scoffs. “It’s ‘Nobody’s Perfect’ by Hannah Montana.”

“Who’s Hannah Montana?” Steve asks.

Tony tries to share a look with Natasha, fails when she stares at him with dead eyes, and then shakes his head. “Later, Cap, it’s irrelevant.”

Bruce is dozing up front in the co-pilot seat and Sam is making sure the autopilot is actually going to take them to Moscow in time to arrest Terence Bernard.

Terence Bernard, 53-years-old, American-born humanitarian who’s been colluding with HYDRA subsidiaries for the last decade, slipping them vital information to aid HYDRA’s efforts to destabilize governments world-wide, all while traveling the globe with the affectation afforded by a friendly grin and open hands.

Bucky closes his eyes, rests his head against the wall of the Quinjet and ignores the way it vibrates against his skull. Better to embrace the rhythmic humming of the jet in his head than to dwell too long on the thought of HYDRA.

Over seven years after breaking out of his conditioning and almost five years after coming out of hiding to find Steve — it’s still not enough to make him feel stable.

“It’ll be something you’ll have to work on for the rest of your life,” a S.H.I.E.L.D. mandated therapist had told him early on. They’d spoken in that gentle, patented “therapist” voice that makes Bucky want to stick his metal fingers into an electrical socket. “Progress is a never-ending journey, unfortunately. And you’ll find that some days, or weeks, or even months, will be worse than others. But that, too, is a sign of progress.”

He shoves the thought away as quickly as it’d arrived.

He’d been adamant early on that he didn’t need any shrink telling him how to process his own life and he’s certainly not going to think about what they had to say now, when he’s moments from confronting yet another head sprouting out of HYDRA’s main body of operations.

“Buck? You okay?”

“Cut it out, punk.” He keeps his eyes closed, but he can picture Steve’s expression, right down to the little crinkle he gets between his eyebrows when he worries.

“Cut what out?” Steve asks, like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. All-American asshole.

“Stop motherin’ me or I’m jumpin’ out of the jet. Without a parachute.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but backs off, hands raised. “Fine, I won’t press the issue. Blame a guy for trying, why don’t you?”

Bucky actually snorts at that. “I’ll blame whoever I damn well please for whatever I damn well please.”

Steve sucks in a breath. “Buck—”

“Barnes, will you switch with me?” Sam yells out from the cockpit, impeccably timed to prevent Steve and Bucky from having yet another argument about Bucky’s past and how responsible he should or shouldn’t be for it — an argument, mind you, that has been going on for precisely four years, seven months, and twenty-three days now, which is five days less than the amount of time Bucky’s been with Steve.

Bucky gets up and brushes past Steve as he maneuvers himself into the pilot’s seat. Bruce is still sleeping soundly and Bucky tries his best not to make any noise, knowing exactly how little sleep the man gets.

He takes a deep breath and focuses on steering, even though he knows there isn’t much of a point.

 _Describes me perfectly,_ he thinks.

*

Clint waits another two-and-a-half hours before he recognizes the tell-tale signs of someone important and in hiding emerging from their refuge, given away by the frequency with which suited, sunglass-wearing douchebags are speed-walking around the lobby and multiple entrances. 

He perks up from where he’s freezing on the rooftop, eagerly scanning the lobby for any hint of Terence Bernard.

_Right there._

Short, with wavy, greying hair, also wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night with whatever flimsy excuse, dressed in an offensively flashy purple suit. 

Okay, that really takes things out of Clint’s hands. No one is allowed to disgrace the color purple by making it look _that_ bad. Oh, and Bernard’s also basically a Nazi by association, so shooting him through the skull is more than allowed.

Clint’s trying to decide which of his arrowheads he’d like to use to rid the earth of Terence Bernard forever when—

Woah.

Hold. 

The. 

Fuck. 

Up.

Aren’t those the Avengers?

*

The Quinjet lands in a private airfield just outside of Moscow and then they’re piling into a highly suspicious-looking black van. Bucky offers to drive, but Steve jumps to take over and Tony slides into the passenger seat before Steve can offer it to Bucky, all while mouthing the words, “You _owe_ me”.

Christ, that’s just perfect. Well-meaning joke or not, that’s another favor to add to the pile of favors Bucky has come to owe Tony in roughly five short years, which is stacked precariously on top of the fact that Tony Stark’s somehow forgiven Bucky for killing Maria and Howard in 1991. Even though he was brainwashed, Bucky doesn’t deserve forgiveness, especially not Tony’s. 

That’s what he thinks about at least twice a week when he lies in bed, sleepless and guilt-ridden, trying to imagine if he’d ever be capable of doing the same thing if he were in Tony’s shoes.

Bucky sits next to Bruce in the middle of the van so that Sam and Natasha can hold hands, or bump knees, or whatever it is that they do to flirt in public, in the backseat.

The drive is upbeat, with Tony and Steve chatting in the front and the radio playing Russian pop music softly in the background. Natasha’s pressed up against Sam so that they’re touching from shoulder to hip.

Bruce is trying to thumb wrestle Bucky’s metal arm and Bucky’s trying to hold back so as not to hurt him or unintentionally “unleash the beast”, as Tony so crudely puts it.

They get out of the van in what is most likely an unfinished construction project, clambering out and stretching their legs and arms with muted groans.

“Where’s Bernard?” Bucky asks. The sooner this is over, the better Bucky’ll feel.

Tony opens the trunk and begins handing out everyone’s gear. “In a private suite in the Hotel Metropol.”

“And we’re getting dressed out here, when we could’ve just been dressed on the jet?”

“Makes for fun memories,” Tony responds casually. “Hurry up.”

This is (one of) the unglamorous parts of being the Avengers: getting buck naked in ramshackle buildings and back alleys and struggling into your suit or armor in record time. You’d think they’d all be better prepared to fight at any given moment, but even the Avengers are only human. It also doesn’t matter how famous you are, stripping down to your birthday suit in semi-public settings really humbles a person.

Tony has it easy, with the metal of his Iron Man armor melding to his body like a second skin. Natasha already has her suit on underneath her clothes, because Natasha has common sense like that. Sam just has to put on his various Falcon accessories and helmet.

Steve has the most work to do, his kevlar suit far too tight to easily slip into, but he somehow does it with practiced ease and finishes getting dressed even before Bucky, which doesn’t make sense, but that’s how it is.

Bruce, as usual, is on reserve and sits on the edge of the trunk with his legs dangling, dressed in a collared shirt tucked hastily into a pair of khakis.

Once they’re all properly suited up, they’re off, bidding a quick goodbye to Bruce, who’ll be overseeing the situation from the van with the aid of JARVIS.

Tony and Sam take to the skies, doing their best to remain hidden by cloud cover. While they can’t quite match the speed of their flying members, Steve, Bucky, and Natasha are on foot, covering a lot more ground than the average human could. 

Three cheers for the super-soldier serum and for the two knock-off variations Bucky and Natasha received doses of.

“Bernard’s on the move,” Tony comments through the comms. “Probably leaving the building in the next ten minutes.”

“We’re almost there,” Steve replies. 

They’re about one block away.

“Status?”

“Hurry up, buttercup, I don’t think he’s planning on extending his stay.”

The Hotel Metropol is brilliantly lit in the night and Bucky imagines the kind of people who are inside, dressed in fancy furs and following white tie dress code while dining in the Grand Hall.

“We’re here,” Steve says. “Where’s Bernard?”

“Leaving the lobby,” Sam says. “Seven guards with him. At least two guns per person.”

Bucky’s already taking off, Steve and Natasha right behind him.

“Try not to injure anyone,” Steve says.

“Like that’s going to happen,” Natasha says wryly.

The Avengers are literally seconds away from the beginning of a mild confrontation, when it happens.

Bucky is the closest to Bernard and his panicking posse and there’s still almost no warning.

There’s a faint sound, the slightest whistle of something sailing through the air, and then Bernard is completely still, before he falls flat on his back, an _arrow_ sticking out of his eye.

The guards shout and scramble even more around Bernard’s limp body, while the grounded Avengers are momentarily frozen before ducking for cover.

Finding temporary refuge behind a decorative potted plant, Bucky exhales sharply. He’s already scouring the nearby rooftops for potential snipers. Or archers? Given the angle that the arrow pierced Bernard’s skull, Bucky can only see two buildings where the shot could have been made, but they’re both across the entire length of the park in front of the hotel.

“What the fuck happened just now?” Sam asks.

“He got shot,” Natasha answers through the comms, her voice grim. 

“He got what?” Tony says. “What did we just say about injuring people?” 

“He got shot with an arrow,” Steve adds.

The comms are silent for ten seconds before everyone is talking over one another.

“Are you suggesting we’re about to meet Robin Hood?” Tony says as he flies past.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m serious. He has an arrow sticking out of his left eye, it went clean through to the back of his skull, if I had to guess.”

Bucky’s not paying attention to the chatter, he’s focused instead on one of the two buildings he’d picked out before. It’s a bit farther than the other, but it has good sightlines of the entire area, if one disregards the obstacles presented by the park, and is probably where their archer took the shot.

“It’s dumb luck,” Bucky snaps as he runs for the building. The sooner he gets to the roof, any roof, the more likely it is that he’ll find the archer.

The guards have finally turned their attention to Steve and Natasha, who are all too willing to put up a fight. Sam swoops in from above and Tony is babbling about scanning the area for any signs of their shooter.

“Doubtful,” Natasha replies as she pins a guard to the ground. There’s a disturbing crunch and then a strained scream. “The window of opportunity was too brief and the winds are too strong. If the archer were incapable of making the shot, then they wouldn’t have taken it. Missing an arrow is a quick way to give away your position without taking out your target.”

“It’s also too much of a calling card, isn’t it?” Sam points out. He grunts as someone swipes at him. “Not a lot of people in the world are shooting bows and arrows anymore. Definitely not as murder weapons.”

“That too,” Natasha agrees.

Bucky is standing on the roof of a building that has _the_ perfect view of the hotel’s entrance — the archer must have waited here, he’s sure of it.

The distance would be feasible with a decent rifle, but obviously, their shooter probably used a crossbow, so that instantly becomes an issue. It’s always easier to get distracted in city settings as well, even for the most practiced of snipers, and who knows how long the archer had to wait for Bernard — who was terrified for his life — to show up. And then there’s the wind, like Natasha mentioned. Even Bucky couldn’t 100% guarantee that he’d be able to take someone out with a bullet, certainly not with a god-damn arrow, and he’s one of the best.

“This is impossible,” he growls into the comms. “There’s no fucking way an actual person did this. The distance and the wind and the visibility, it’s all, fuck, it’s all too difficult to guarantee a hit on the first try.”

“Nothing’s impossible,” Sam says. “Maybe they’re enhanced?”

“ _I’m_ enhanced and _I’m_ saying this is impossible,” Bucky reiterates. “I swear to God. Impossible to guarantee.”

“Are you certain that’s where Katniss took the shot?” Tony asks.

Bucky shuffles the nickname away for later and does another sweep of the rooftop. Everything’s fairly typical for a Moscow building, but he notices a fleck of color he hadn’t noticed in his earlier rush.

It’s a small, flimsy piece of plastic that spirals slightly and it’s an eye-watering shade of purple.

“Fuck, we just missed them.”

“What?” 

“There’s something here, a little plastic thing. I think it’s a part of an arrow.”

Tony scoffs. “You _think_?”

Bucky snaps. “Forgive me, Stark, if I can’t immediately identify parts of outdated weaponry. Sue me.”

“Sheesh, you’re in a crappy mood, aren’t you?”

It’s not that Bucky’s in a crappy mood.

It’s that he keeps thinking about the shot, how perfect it was, how it came out of nowhere, and he keeps hearing the slight sound the arrow had made when it cut through the air.

_Who could’ve made that shot?_

More importantly, _why didn’t they try to shoot anyone else?_

In the split second when Bernard had breathed his last, the grounded Avengers had frozen and while it had been brief, it had happened. That’s a moment that could decide life and death for people like them.

No one could have known the Avengers would be here, since even the new and reformed SHIELD had been left out of the loop, so it’s more probable that the archer had intended to hit Bernard. A good guy wouldn’t kill Bernard, a good guy would’ve tried to catch him alive.

So a bad guy, then.

But given the opportunity and the fact that they’re presumably okay with killing anyways, why wouldn’t an already bad guy try to kill off a few of the Avengers? Lesson #1 in metaphorically donning a cape: murderers don’t take kindly to superheroes.

Bucky can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop replaying the way Bernard had collapsed when the arrow hit its intended target. 

The arrow, the motive, the unanswered questions.

_Who the fuck made that shot?_

*

Clint had not expected the motherfucking Avengers to swarm the scene moments before he’d released his arrow. 

Though that didn’t mean he hadn’t taken the shot — he needs to pay rent in a couple days, and if he didn’t take out Bernard, he’d surely be evicted.

So, with a silent apology to his childhood crush, Clint had nocked one of his boring-but-less-traceable arrows into place and shot it through Bernard’s eye, exactly where he wanted it to be. Then he’d grabbed all of his shit and ran like his life depended on it, which it kind of did.

He had felt a little bad that he’d left the guards for the Avengers to deal with, but if they can’t take care of a bunch of grunts, Clint guesses they probably aren’t the real Avengers anyways — there are far too many knock-offs wandering around nowadays.

The chances of getting caught on the rooftop had been too high, so he’d scaled down the side of the building — with the help of a grappling arrow — in record time and does his best to blend into the late-night crowd once he hits the ground. 

And now Clint’s strolling down the street with a giant duffle bag slung over one shoulder, trying to look like the picture of innocence. If any of the Avengers pass by, he’s good enough at Russian to pretend he belongs here, even if the natives will identify his foreign accent immediately.

Oh shit, the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier would sniff him out then.

He ignores the logic of that thought as he ambles towards his hotel room in central Moscow, which has been slowly gentrified over the years for the sake of tourism and affords him the incredibly convenient and believable cover story of being some naive American globetrotter.

Though he does stop on his way back to treat himself to the pirozhki he deserves, which kind of does make him a naive American globetrotter after all.

 _Done_ , he texts on his ancient Nokia as he walks into the hotel lobby, eating his food enthusiastically.

Whoever commissioned him for the job responds immediately. _Sent._

Clint doesn’t bother with a response and trusts that the second half of his payment will arrive into his account. He does speed-walk up to his room, because he needs to check his email.

He slides the key card into his room door and opens the door with a satisfying click.

“Home, sweet home,” he says to no one.

He makes a beeline for his laptop. 

The promised files are in his inbox, encrypted, and Clint pumps his fist. Information on HYDRA is hard to come by these days, ever since the Widow and the Soldier had exposed the entire organization (or so they thought), and he’d taken his job to kill two birds with one arrow: he gets rid of Bernard as asked and his employer for this job will send him all of Bernard’s intel.

He’d been low-key worried that whoever was paying him was trying to get rid of evidence, first by removing Bernard from the picture and then sending Clint doctored information. But Weasel swore the job was legit and Weasel’s never lied to Clint, even when he had nothing good to say.

So, he’d agreed and now Clint’s done it.

He makes sure to make four back-up copies of said files and then sets them aside for later.

His flight back to New York leaves in just less than twenty-four hours, meaning Clint has enough time to sprawl out on the queen-sized bed, with relatively clean sheets, and try not to get anxious at the thought of the Avengers finding his boring arrow and finding out about the far less boring Hawkeye.

An Avengers sighting, though. 

_In the wild_. 

What are the odds?

The Avengers are the Earth’s mightiest heroes, or so says the propaganda. The only confirmed public knowledge about them, other than their monikers, is that they’re heavily funded by Tony Stark, in his personal effort to make reparations for Stark Industries’ past involvement in the manufacture and misuse of weapons and military technologies worldwide.

Naturally, there’d been controversies over the years about who calls the shots in the Avengers and how could the average citizen possibly trust superheroes with secret identities to protect them? And those controversies had only gotten worse when the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier were added to the ranks and their reputations working for the former Soviet Union and literal Nazis had spread like wildfire amongst the masses.

Clint is one of those rare people who doesn’t have strong feelings about supers, one way or the other. Earth’s mightiest heroes or not, the Avengers can’t do every good deed that needs to be done and Clint also firmly believes right and wrong aren’t strictly limited to black and white — it’s all shades of grey.

Oh man, fifty shades of grey, if Clint gets to pick the number.

Usefulness of the Avengers aside, he’s willing to bet his entire life on the fact that every single member is smoking hot underneath their masks. That’s a pretty normal requirement for being a superhero, right?

If it isn’t official, it should be.

He really should call his local representative about it once he’s back in the US. He’d do it now, but international calls are pricey and he’s not made of money — he’s made of childhood trauma, trust issues, and pizza, if you were curious. Wink.

Which brings us back to now, where Clint is lying splayed out on the bed and recalls Captain America in his form-fitting, star-spangled outfit. He absentmindedly wonders if everyone’s ass would look that good in a kevlar suit that tight, or if it’s just that Captain America has a spectacular, 10 out of 10 ass. 

Probably just an incredible ass.

America’s ass.

“Would my butt look poppin’ in Captain America’s super suit,” Clint says aloud, just to put the idea out there into the universe. Maybe it’ll come back to him, and come true, especially now that his buttcheeks are still right where they belong and no longer threatening to freeze off on a rooftop in Moscow.

He falls asleep trying to figure out exactly how he would end up in Captain America’s costume anyways and his subsequent shameless fantasy involves him getting the good ol’ Captain _out_ of the suit first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the "steven f. rogers" stuff is gonna be explained in the next chapter
> 
> bucky and clint aren't gonna meet until chapter 4/5


	2. head back to where the magic grew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the avengers are getting nowhere on their search for their archer
> 
> clint gets a call from weasel

The debrief following the Moscow incident is a disaster — at least, it’s more of a disaster than it normally is.

They’d already covered most of the important details, like potential motives — none of them good — and they’d all asked most of their contacts if they’d ever heard of a person who uses arrows as their weapon of choice. SHIELD is in the process of compiling information and profiles on potential hitmen who could be their archer.

Bruce barely pays attention, more focused on some new data than the debrief. Sam and Natasha sit stonily as Steve calls the archer a threat to international security and Tony can’t stop mouthing off at the fact they had no information _at all_ about said archer, even after JARVIS looked through the available security footage.

Bucky is only here because Steve would torture him (with kindness, which is a million times worse than if he would just stab Bucky or something) about it later on if he weren’t.

“It’s just not possible, unless Legolas is actually living in the Stone Age,” Tony says, for the thirty-fourth time since discovering the dearth of information to be had. “Who _doesn’t_ have a phone nowadays? An IP address? Something electronic that I can actually track?!”

“It’s not _impossible_ ,” Bucky drawls. “I mean, exhibit A?” He gestures to himself in one sweeping motion that has Steve go from disappointed to concerned instantly. Bucky’s not sure which one he prefers — both expressions make him feel small and useless in ways he hasn’t felt since he’d been ten years old.

Maybe concerned is better. Yes, he irrevocably picks concerned.

“It’s not the same, Buck,” Steve says immediately, as if Bucky still needs reassurance about having been the Winter Soldier.

He changes his mind in that instant. He’d rather have a disappointed Steve than a concerned one.

“You had an elite Nazi organization scheduling your assassinations and planning down to the second when you’d be taken out of the freezer to defrost,” Tony adds, bulldozing Steve’s intentions of coddling, “so while I appreciate the thought, like Cap said, it’s not the same at all.”

Steve bristles at Tony’s bluntness, but Bruce is the one to jostle Tony with an elbow. 

“Tony’s right, though,” Sam says, looking at Bucky. “When you were, well, _you know_ , all of us had heard of you, whether it was a rumor or a ghost story or whatever. The big, bad Winter Soldier. Nat even had a run-in with you, so it’s not like you were a secret, even if you were untraceable.” He pauses and shakes his head in disbelief. “With the archer, they’re not only untraceable, but how is it that the Avengers have never heard of them? That SHIELD’s never heard of them? I know I’d remember seeing _any_ information about a person out killing other people with arrows, and that’s just the problem. JARVIS doesn’t know anything, I don’t know anything, and based on how this conversation’s going, none of you know anything either.”

The atmosphere of the conference room they’d convened in turns grim as the Avengers grapple with that fact.

“An assassin of some sort is out, loose in the world, and somehow, someway, no one has any information on them, despite them having just about the most obvious calling card in existence,” Bruce summarizes. He pushes his glasses up his nose and turns to Natasha. “What do you think we should do?”

“I can think of one person who might know something,” Natasha answers. Her mouth is set in a tight line. “It looks like I’ll be making a visit to Sister Margaret’s.”

*

Clint sleeps for twenty-seven hours straight once he stumbles back into his apartment and only wakes up when the taste of his mouth, fuzzy and dry and just absolutely awful, becomes so unbearable he’s forced to open his eyes.

The clock on his bedside table says it’s 3:48 PM.

Clint’s body says it’s 10:48 PM.

Either way, neither time is appropriate for waking up.

He’s tempted to sleep more, but Kate is bringing Lucky back home soon and if he’s not awake to open the door, she’ll probably climb in through the fire escape and hide all of his right shoes again.

He groans and flops back down onto the bed, his eyesight bleary as he blinks at the overwhelming brightness of the grey winter sky peeking in through the blinds.

“Get up, get up,” he commands himself, despite knowing his body won’t listen to him. “Fuck, I need so much coffee.”

He latches onto that thought and drags himself out of bed.

It takes him roughly half an hour to get properly showered and caffeinated and then he only has another ten minutes before Kate’s supposed to show up, and she’s always so terribly on time, which is honestly so rude of her. Shouldn’t she know that modern courtesy is being chronically late by at least ten minutes, if not twenty?

His “Steve Rogers” phone vibrates and Clint reads Kate’s text with his coffee mug pressed to his mouth. 

_omw open up in 7_

Yup, she’s on time. The nerve of this child.

Right, the “Steve Rogers” phone probably requires some explanation too.

Here’s the basic idea: Clint can’t just be “Clinton Francis Barton” in daily life, because “Clinton Francis Barton” used to illegally work for Carson’s Carnival of Travelling Wonders as “The Amazing Hawkeye”, who did archery trick shots for a living and was also later left for dead _and_ framed for grand larceny by members of that very same circus (who secretly called themselves the Circus of Crime, if that isn’t telling enough), so he has a criminal record that he doesn’t actually deserve and it gets in the way of Clint trying to live a normal life post-running away to the circus.

(That makes this stage of his life running away _from_ the circus.)

In the past, when he’d done his best to put together a new identity after slipping the cuffs that shackled him to a hospital bed, Clint had picked “Steven F. Rogers” for precisely three great reasons that he thought of two years after the fact.

One, he’s loved Captain America ever since he first read those comic books about a plucky Steven Grant Rogers who doesn’t give up and doesn’t turn a blind eye to bad deeds. That’s exactly the kind of hero Clint wanted to have in his misspent youth and didn’t get, until over a decade ago, when the mantle had passed on to the current Captain America, whatever their name is.

Two, there are hundreds of “Steven Middle-Name Rogers” in the continental United States. In fact, there are even more “Steven Roger Last-Name” people out there than “Steven Middle-Name Rogers” people. You just know that the average person will let power go to their head when you see how parents name their children after historical figures and popular characters in media and random inanimate objects. (Even worse when they go for a boring name that they add extra letters to, for the sake of making it unique and completely illegible.)

Three, it’s easy to remember and easy to believe for Reasons Number One and Two.

If those reasons aren't good enough, maybe also consider that Clint had been eighteen at the time and his formal education had stopped at the age of nine when he had initially joined the circus. God bless the public school system in Iowa that taught him to count and read — somewhat. Well, beggars can't be choosers and all that crap about accepting life is shit sometimes.

Anyway, long tragic backstory short, Clinton Francis Barton doesn’t live in Apartment 5B in the decent-sized building owned by the “bros” Clint lovingly dubs the tracksuit mafia. He doesn’t teach ASL classes at the community center in Queens. And he doesn’t have an adorable one-eyed mutt named Lucky who likes to eat pizza.

That’s all Steven F. Rogers.

There’s another text.

_open the ducking door_

And another.

_*fucking_

And now he’s four minutes late. 

Katie-Kate’s going to be mad. 

Whoops.

*

Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Girls used to have a reputation for housing violent teenage girls in need of rehabilitation and good adult influence, but now, it only has a reputation if you know what you’re looking for.

If you’re ever in New York City and in desperate need of a gun-for-hire, that’s when you’ll be directed towards Sister Margaret’s. 

Natasha, with a reluctant Bucky in tow, steps towards mercenary territory without an ounce of hesitation. 

The bouncer lingering in front of the entrance gives her a once-over under the guise of a weapons check, but spends too much time ogling her chest for it to qualify as an effective security measure.

“Fuck off, pal,” Bucky snarls.

Natasha rolls her eyes, probably because she doesn’t need anyone protecting her, but a smile also tugs at the corners of her mouth, because she appreciates the thought that someone will protect her anyways. At least that’s how Bucky chooses to see it.

The bouncer grunts, eyes Bucky as if to debate whether he could win a fight against him, and jerks his head towards the door, allowing them in.

The inside of the building is exactly as seedy and disgusting as Bucky vaguely remembers from the one time he came in here when he’d still been on the run from both HYDRA and Steve. There’s Christmas lights half-hazardly hanging from the ceiling and the entire bar reeks of alcohol and marijuana. The bar’s occupants are loud and belligerent and Bucky watches a number of them play darts with hunting knives.

Not a great place to be as an Avenger — not a great place to be as any kind of do-gooder — and Bucky’s grateful, not for the first time, that in this day and age, superheroes can still maintain secret identities, mostly thanks to Tony Stark’s limitless influence and advanced technology. 

Praise be to Iron Man.

“Hey, Heather,” the man behind the counter calls out over the noise of the bar.

Calls out to Natasha, Bucky realizes, when the Widow heads directly towards him with a tiny waggle of her fingers.

The guy’s probably younger than the both of them, with unkempt hair longer than Bucky’s and a pair of round, owlish glasses perched on the end of his pockmarked nose. His t-shirt is stained with questionable substances and his blue jeans are well-worn.

Nothing about him screams information broker and weapons dealer, but hell, no one is going to look at Bucky and think, “That man is technically 95 years old.”

“Weasel,” Natasha says with a nod. She slides into one of the barstools as if she’s been here thousands of times. 

“Heather?” Bucky mumbles as he takes a seat next to her. The heel of her boot stabs him in the foot and he lets out a strangled groan.

Weasel glances at Bucky. “Friend of yours?”

“Maybe,” she answers as she looks at Bucky from the corner of her eye. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Fuck you, _Heather_ ,” Bucky grouses.

Weasel smiles at that, toothy and friendly and somehow a touch unlikeable. “He can be my friend, as long as he’s got the money for it,” he says easily. “What can I get you guys?”

“Anything strong enough to mask the smell of this place,” Bucky says.

Weasel laughs. “I got just the thing. You?”

“I’ll start with a beer,” Natasha answers. She tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ear and Bucky marvels at how well she can disguise herself. She’s wearing a brunette wig that’s masterfully placed so that it looks 110% natural. Her make up turns her face unmemorable and her clothes are nondescript.

Bucky’s just wearing jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt. He’s also wearing leather gloves, which might be too obvious, if you know what you’re looking for, honestly. Maybe he should take up Natasha’s offer to learn the art of hiding in plain sight.

“Looking for another job, then?” Weasel asks as he putters about behind the counter. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

She shrugs as he slides a bottle of beer over to her. “Found a different line of work,” she answers. “‘S where I met Frank.”

_Guess that’s me._

“Is that right? What kind of work are you two doing?” Weasel hands over something colorless in a smudged glass.

Bucky wracks his brains for a job that could fit the description; it’d have to be something potentially sketchy, but small-time, otherwise Weasel would’ve already heard about it.

“Private security,” he says; close enough to the truth that Bucky won’t slip up, but also with enough potential to stay vague on the details. He takes a swig of the drink. It might literally be hand sanitizer, but it does precisely what he’d asked for, so he holds his tongue.

“For?”

“I’d tell you, but I didn't get hired to talk about it, you know,” Bucky replies.

“Ain't that the truth,” Weasel says with an amused snort. His eyes focus on Natasha. “What’re you back in for?”

Natasha smiles slightly, coy and sweet. “I’m looking for information,” she says with a flutter of lashes.

“Cut the crap, Heather, I’m not falling for it.” Weasel leans forward and smiles and his teeth are immaculate. Perfectly aligned, pearly white. 

“Yeah, cut the crap, Heather, and give the man his money.”

The heel of Natasha’s boot grinds down on the bones in Bucky’s foot once more, but it’s absolutely worth it.

Weasel looks intrigued. “What kind of information and how much’ll you give me for it?” 

“I’ll pay for it, _if_ and _when_ I find out how useful it is,” Natasha decides. “Who do you know who doesn’t use silenced guns for discreet jobs?”

There’s obviously a reason Natasha is playing this level of dumb, but Bucky can’t figure out why on Earth it’d matter. Asking about a person who uses arrows is going to be a dead giveaway. 

“Uh, that’s any number of people. Silencers are still loud as fuck. You mean knives? Or poison? You got anything more specific?”

Natasha nudges Bucky with her foot and tilts her head slightly. 

“What about anyone with experience using old-fashioned weapons?” he asks.

His thoughts keep going back to those seven seconds where there’s a rush of wind and suddenly their reason for being stuck in Moscow has been shot with a fucking arrow.

He relives that scene over and over in his head, obsessing about the angle at which the arrow had entered Bernard’s skull, about the sudden realization that a silent killer had been in the vicinity and he _hadn’t_ noticed at all.

“Earth to Frank,” Weasel says, for the umpteenth time. 

Bucky blinks. “What?”

“You zoned out, man. You with us?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “yeah, I’m with you." He looks down at his glass of hand sanitizer. "Where else could I possibly be,” he grumbles to himself.

“I said, what kind of old-fashioned are we talking about? You said no guns, so what are we talking?” Weasel’s voice is even, uninterested maybe, but Bucky knows better than to believe it.

He licks the corner of his mouth. It tastes like disinfectant. “Let’s say bow-and-arrow old-fashioned.”

There’s a glimmer of recognition in Weasel’s slightly narrowed eyes, but there’s no other instinctive reaction that indicates he knows anyone that matches that description.

“You’re honestly asking me if any of these ridiculous assholes, many of whom are fucking enhanced, use a fucking _bow_ and _arrow_ to hit their marks?” he asks incredulously as he gestures to the unsavory individuals hanging around Sister Margaret’s.

He stares at Bucky, turns to stare at Natasha, and then returns to staring at Bucky.

And then he’s laughing, laughing so hard he’s near tears.

Natasha frowns visibly, which is a sign of just how horribly this conversation is going. 

Everyone in the bar glances between them and Weasel, who’s now gasping for air with both hands clapped on his knees.

“Frank, you’re a god-damn treat,” Weasel says, sighing. He wipes at his eyes, taking off his glasses and setting them on the counter. “And if it wasn’t clear from the laughing and the crying and the uncontrollable twitching, _no_ , I don’t know any respectable merc who’s out playing Robin Hood.” He snorts. “Fuck, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard since Wade told me he’s in love.”

“No need to laugh,” Bucky says, eyes scanning Weasel’s face. “We didn’t say it had to be an actual bow and arrows. Just, you know, that kind of old-fashioned.”

Weasel’s jaw clenches, ever so slightly, before he loosens up. It’d be easier to miss if Bucky weren’t already suspicious. “Funny though. What other weapons are _that kind of old-fashioned_?”

“We were actually looking for a woman, middle-aged, ethnicity unknown, who uses something that looks like a sickle. Y’know anyone like that?”

Bucky might be staring at Weasel, but the man is staring right back as if he can just somehow _tell_ Bucky is lying.

“No,” he says, finally looking away, “I don’t know anyone like that. But I’ll keep an eye out. Or something.”

“That’s all we ask,” Bucky says, calm and composed. He raises his glass and nods. “Thanks for the drink, I think it cleaned out my insides.”

Weasel smirks and moves on to talk to a few other people who’d just entered the bar.

They drink in silence for a few minutes, Bucky downing the last of whatever is in his cup and Natasha sipping slowly on her beer.

“ _What now,_ ” Bucky mutters in Russian, “ _since your genius plan backfired spectacularly?_ ”

“ _Fuck off, Soldier_ ,” Natasha snips back. She finishes her drink and places a few bills across the counter. “Thanks, Weasel. I’ll stop by again sometime.”

Weasel smiles again from across the counter and Bucky imagines punching him in the face just because he feels like the man deserves it.

“Anytime, Heather,” Weasel says with a little wave. 

“Anytime, Heather,” Bucky mimics under his breath.

Natasha’s boot meets his foot for the third time and Bucky curses as he limps out of Sister Margaret’s.

*

Two hours after bidding Kate goodbye and promising her pizza and beer as a thank-you sometime this week, Clint gets a phone call on his crappiest flip phone, meaning he’s either got another job or Weasel’s about to yell at him for leaving behind an arrow where the Avengers could find it.

Clint could bet the entirety of his meager life savings on which one it's going to be.

“You wanna take this one, boy?” he asks Lucky, who eagerly approaches him with a fiercely wagging tail.

“Right, you can’t talk. That might be a problem.”

The phone vibrates again.

No point in delaying the inevitable lecture and potential death threat he can tell is in his future.

Clint answers the phone on the eighth vibration with a bright and cheery, “Hi, is this Jack?” 

There’s the sound of a groan on the other end of the line. “Fuck you, Barton, don’t call me that.”

“Fine, fine,” Clint snorts, “why’re you calling, Weez?”

“... you’re either playing dumb or you’re actually dumb, and honestly, I don’t know what’s more likely.”

“Don’t be fucking rude.” A pause. “Is this about Moscow?”

“Obviously, it’s about Moscow,” Weasel sighs. “You wanna tell me why I got the Widow _and_ the Soldier sneaking into my bar, looking for information on a theoretical Robin Hood?”

Clint ignores the question in favor of a few of his own. “Are you sure they’re the real deal? They could just be a random couple or something. Bad spot for date night.” He laughs weakly at his own joke.

Weasel laughs derisively, decidedly not at Clint’s attempt at humor. “She’s been around a number of times, always while wearing a wig. Had my suspicions but didn’t know for sure until she showed up with a guy who could only be the Soldier, since he was wearing leather gloves and they spoke to each other in Russian. _And_ she called him _'soldier'._ Of course, I also heard about the Avengers fiasco in Moscow. Who else could it be?”

Clint whines. “What did you tell them? How much did they give you? If you don’t give me at least 50%, I’m setting Margaret’s on fire. On FIRE, do you hear me?”

“Calm down, dude, I didn’t tell them anything and they never even made me an offer, so I couldn’t tell if it’d be worth ratting you out or not. But since I didn’t say anything, you definitely owe me at least two jobs pro bono.”

“Fine. Two jobs, pro boner,” Clint says.

“Pro bo—, y’know what? Doesn’t matter, you’re going to forget it anyway. Just remember, two jobs.”

“Two jobs,” Clint repeats.

Weasel hangs up without another word.

He debates calling back to remind Weasel the kind of jobs he’s willing to take, but decides against it. They haven’t been maybe-if-you-squint friends for as long as they have without learning each other’s limits.

Lucky sits at Clint’s feet, tongue lolling happily out of his mouth. He nudges his nose into Clint’s free hand and the wetness pulls him from his thoughts. 

“Sounds like the Avengers are looking for me,” Clint says, rubbing his hand over Lucky’s head. 

He tries to calculate the odds of living out his stupid little life without getting arrested by Earth’s mightiest heroes.

Cool.

Cool, cool, cool.

He’ll be fine.

It's fine.

Totally fine.

Right?

*

Steve calls another meeting about their archer two days after Natasha and Bucky stalk back in from their unsuccessful visit to Sister Margaret’s.

“So, what have we learned?”

Bucky slouches in his seat. “ _We_ haven’t learned anything. Think the bartender knows something, but he played it off too well for us to keep talking about it.”

“Weasel definitely knows something,” Natasha says. “But he’s hiding it, which isn’t like him. He’d sell out his mother if the price were right. We should bribe him.”

“He laughed so fucking loud and for so fucking long every fucking assassin in the bar turned to get a look at us. Bribing him isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

“Even the worst people in New York don’t know a thing about this archer. Or they’re not willing to give them up.” Bruce drums his fingers against the table top. “Maybe we should ask the Defenders.”

“The Defenders don’t like us,” Sam says. “We shouldn’t antagonize them.”

“Maybe we should try to catch Merida in the act,” Tony remarks. “She’s taking jobs somehow, right?”

Steve does a double-take. “Are you suggesting we _hire_ the archer?”

“You have any better ideas, Cap? We don’t have a name or a face to look for, we don’t even know how to refer to them aside from ‘the archer’! We could be looking for someone young or old or middle-aged, they could be female or male or neither or both. We could be looking for an alien. We _literally_ have nothing here.”

“We’re kind of wasting the biggest source of information we got,” Bruce comments offhandedly.

“What source?”

Bruce sighs. “Who do we know who’s annoyingly well-informed and literally never shuts up?”

“Deadpool,” Steve answers.

Natasha stares at Bruce. “You’re kidding me. Deadpool talks nonstop, but if Weasel won’t say anything, there’s no way Deadpool will.”

Bruce smiles and it’s rather unfriendly for someone so mild-mannered. (Then again, no one would expect Bruce Banner to be capable of turning into a physical embodiment of rage at will. Appearances are deceiving.) “Weasel might not say anything to Heather, but Deadpool’s obsessed with Spider-Man, right? Tony, can’t you call in a favor, or whatever it is you do to have everything go your way?” 

Bucky stares. “How’d you know she was callin’ herself Heather?”

“I could pull some strings,” Tony says, ignoring Bucky’s question with a mischievous grin. “I like the way you think.”

“It’s settled then,” Steve says, Bucky’s question firmly forgotten. “We ask Spider-Man for his assistance on the matter and hopefully, we get some new leads.” He clears his throat. “In the meantime, I’ve got some new leads on a few new HYDRA subsidiaries.”

There’s a collective sigh and grumble about the criminal amount of work, but it can’t be helped; there’s always more to do when you’re an Avenger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading y'all :-)


	3. come on, let's go, back to moscow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (but no one actually gets to go to moscow)

Clint wakes up to a series of texts lifted directly from _Romeo and Juliet_ , interspersed with occasional poetry about “an ass that won’t quit” from Wade and decides he should probably drop in on his unhinged friend before he can really do anything too unhinged — that is, at least in relation to his pretty tragic love life.

Then again, Clint thinks Wade Wilson’s entire life is pretty tragic and he knows an estimated 30% of it.

That’s a lie, actually; he has unlocked precisely 22.8% of Wade’s tragic backstory.

Clint decides to take Lucky with him — who, weirdly enough, _loves_ the merc — and makes his merry way over to Wade’s shady building on the edge of Brooklyn, when he runs into a student from his ASL classes.

“Hey man,” his student says, a big grin plastered on his face, “good to see you!”

“Hi Peter,” Clint laughs. “It’s good to see you, too.”

Peter’s been taking Clint’s ASL classes along with his older aunt, as her hearing’s been turning progressively worse as the years go on. May Parker might just be one of Clint’s favorite people, friendly and wise without shoving it down people’s throats. Apparently the late Ben Parker was much the same and Clint can definitely imagine the older man cracking the same kind of jokes as Peter and sharing May’s penchant for sharing tidbits of necessary wisdom.

“And who’s this?” Peter reaches down and scratches Lucky behind the ears.

“You finally get to meet Lucky the pizza dog,” Clint answers. He signs the name as he does and Peter watches, before repeating it exactly.

[good job], Clint signs.

[thank you], Peter signs back, [i try my best]

[how’s may?]

[she’s doing well. she misses telling you to stop drinking so much coffee.] Peter grins.

“Your signing is a lot more natural now,” Clint compliments.

“I’ve been practicing!” Peter says brightly.

“I can tell.” He watches Peter pet Lucky a few more times, before he realizes where they’re standing. “Aren’t you kind of far from home?”

“Kind of,” Peter replies, standing up. “I was just visiting a friend actually.” 

His cheeks are slightly pink and Clint can’t stop himself from giving the younger man shit for it — it shouldn’t come as a surprise, honestly.

“Oh, a _friend_ ,” Clint says with a knowing look and shit-eating smile. “I’m sure your _friend_ was happy that you _came_. Over. Came over.”

Peter flushes. “Yeah, he was,” he mumbles.

“What are the odds,” Clint says, tilting his head in thought, “I’m on my way to meet a friend now. Maybe not like how you were _meeting_ a friend, but like, I got a bunch of concerning texts this morning and now I have to make sure he didn’t do something absolutely stupid ‘in the name of love’.” He snorts slightly.

Peter’s brow furrows. “Concerning how?”

“Have you ever heard someone wax poetic about another person’s ass?”

“Uh, I, uh, can’t say that I have,” Peter says, with a funny look in his eye.

Clint laughs. “Then consider yourself lucky your _friend_ isn’t anything like Wade Wilson,” he says with a shake of his head.

Peter’s face ripples between a handful of different emotions before settling on an awkward half-smile. “Oh. _Oh._ Um, yeah. Ha. Haha.”

“Parker, you good? You look like you’re gonna faint.”

Peter’s definitely paler than when they first started chatting, and Clint is pretty sure his eyes are rounder than they even were moments before. He’s still got that uncomfortable smile — that doesn’t reach his eyes — plastered on.

“Oh, I’m grand. I’m, like, a million dollars right now.”

Clint snorts. “Which is it, are you a grand or a million bucks?”

“Um, I’m a million bucks?”

“You know I think the saying goes, ‘I feel like a million bucks’.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. I feel like a million bucks,” Peter says, distracted.

Clint shrugs. “Well, I gotta head over, but I’ll see you in class?”

“Yeah, man, for sure.”

“And you’re sure you’re alright?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“Alright, then take care, I’ll see you around, or wait, in class–, you know what I mean.”

Peter gives him half a wave and Clint walks off with Lucky, glancing back to see him standing stiffly for a couple seconds longer before dashing off down the street.

 _Well, he’s always been antsy_ , Clint thinks to himself.

Wade’s apartment, in terms of crappiness, is on par with Clint’s, but Wade’s building isn’t owned by those tracksuit-wearing assholes, so it’s thousands of times better in Clint’s opinion, which is the only opinion that should matter. Also, Wade’s menacing enough that no one will try to force him out of anywhere and even though Clint isn’t exactly small, he apparently radiates the happy, compliant energy of a labrador retriever.

Clint bangs on the door and it rattles in the doorframe. He could easily kick the door down, if he makes an effort, which attests to the piss-poor security, although Clint knows Wade doesn’t exactly need it.

“Open up, Winston, or I’m breaking the door!”

“Shut the fuck up!” A neighbor shouts from down the hall.

The door swings open and there stands Wade Winston Wilson in his full Deadpool regalia. “Francis, baby,” he coos, “are you checking in on little ol’ me?”

Actually, Wade’s in his suit _and_ he’s wearing an atrocious pair of bedazzled pink Crocs.

Clint shoves his way in through the door, Lucky trotting in right after him. “Fuck you, Winston.”

“Fuck _me_ , Francis,” Wade says with a wink.

“Thought you were trying to get into Spider-Man’s spandex pants,” Clint says casually as he collapses onto the first clean seat he can find, “which is why I’m here anyway. Thanks for the unnecessary play-by-play.” Lucky jumps up and joins him, settling down half on top of Clint, half hanging off the arm of the couch. Every time he wags his tail, it lightly smacks Clint in the face.

“You _do_ read my texts!” Wade fake-squeals, one hand pressed flat against his cheek.

“Mhm. I like reading about your one-sided, star-crossed love story. Great material. Mediocre plot. Insufferable male lead by the name of Wade Winston Wilson.” He thinks about it for a moment. “Makes for great banter with Weasel whenever he’s not giving me shit about my work ethic.”

Wade laughs, delighted. “You deserve it, Hawkguy, I heard all about Moscow. Man, everyone and their mother has heard about Moscow by now.”

Clint groans. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“How long after you left the scene did you wait before jerking off to the thought of Captain America’s hot bod all up in your business?” Wade wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and Clint does not blush, because he _doesn’t_ blush and he _definitely_ doesn’t regret telling Wade about his childhood-also-maybe-teenage-also-maybe-current crush when he was completely hammered, a few months into their mutual acquaintance.

“I didn’t–, that’s, this is slander. Slander, I say!”

“So, less than an hour,” Wade cackles, throwing himself onto the other end of the couch.

Lucky looks up from where he’s laying on top of Clint and wags his tail with vigor, which lets Clint get an open mouthful of tail fur. He encourages Lucky to shove off to the empty armchair, all while opening and closing his mouth several times, trying to come up with a decent retort. “I’m, I’m, ha! I’m taller than you.”

Wade immediately stops his jeering to protest. “It’s only _one_ inch, Francis, get over yourself!”

“Don’t be insecure, Wade. It’s not about the size of the boat, it’s about the motion of the ocean.” He grins.

“Hey, I’ll have you know my penis is _huge_.”

Clint laughs at that. “I’m sure it is, short stack.”

Which is how Wade and Clint actually end up having an honest-to-God dick-measuring contest, because that’s the kind of friendship they’ve had for the last eight years.

*

“What did he say?”

They’ve finally made time for another meeting about their mystery archer in between missions related to the other HYDRA subsidiaries and looking into all of Bernard’s affiliates.

Tony is frowning. “I think we have a bigger issue than we originally thought.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Spider-Man said Deadpool didn’t know anything when he’d asked.”

Steve rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s not ideal, but it’s not the biggest issue we have to deal—”

“I’m pretty sure Spider-Man lied.”

“What makes you say that?” Bruce asks, looking up from the papers spread in front of him.

Tony lets out a huff. “The guy sucks at it, because he’s stupidly honest. When I called in a favor and asked him to wheedle Deadpool for information on Legolas, he was more than ready to help out and said he’d do it. Had a late night meeting planned and everything. I got one text telling me he’s about to meet Deadpool and then the next update I get, it’s two days later and he tells me that Deadpool didn’t know anything, but avoided answering any of my follow-up questions!”

“You really think Spider-Man is _lying_?”

“I don’t know about ‘lying’, but he knows _something_ and now I definitely need to know what he’s hiding. Like, why did it take so long to get back to me?”

“Do you think he knows the archer? That could explain the lying,” Bucky says.

Tony makes a derisive noise. “You think our ‘neighborhood, friendly Spider-Man’ who returns stolen wallets and helps old ladies walk across the street knows a trained assassin. Who kills people for a living. And is willingly hiding information about said assassin from the Avengers. Great critical thinking there, Barnes.”

“Spider-Man hangs out with Deadpool, Stark, it’s not an impossible leap in logic,” Bucky snaps, unable to stop himself from getting defensive.

“And clearly, he’s doing good by it!” Tony points out. “Deadpool’s casualty rate is significantly lower every month and half the time he doesn’t even brutally maim the bad guys like he used to!” 

“I’ve heard Deadpool’s working towards quitting mercenary work altogether,” Natasha interrupts. 

Tony gestures towards her. “You see? Spider-Man is working miracles. So what does it mean that he’s not telling us about our very own ethically ambiguous Robin Hood?”

Sam frowns. “Ethically ambiguous?”

Tony sighs, exasperated. “C’mon, folks, keep up. Robin Hood killed Bernard. Did Bernard deserve it? Absolutely. But what was the motive? Did our archer kill Bernard because Bernard is, or was I guess if we’re gettin’ technical, a Nazi? It’s possible. Or do you think it’s more likely that the archer got hired to take Bernard out because someone knew we were looking to get information off of him?”

“Dead men tell no tales,” Sam says.

“My point exactly,” Tony says, pointing to the Falcon in recognition.

“They could have shot us,” Bucky says through clenched teeth. “If they’re good enough to get Bernard in the midst of all that chaos, they could have easily shot me, or Natasha, or Steve. We were all out in the open. We even froze after the first arrow.” He looks up. “But they didn’t.”

“So, what does that mean?” Steve asks. “No one is willing to step forward with information, not the mercenaries, not other heroes. Is the archer a good guy or are they a bad guy?”

“Maybe they’re neither,” Natasha says. “I think Tony put it best. ‘Ethically ambiguous’, right?”

“Ethically ambiguous,” Tony agrees.

*

Ethically ambiguous Robin Hood is currently eating pizza off a disposable kitchen towel in Wade’s apartment. No need to do dishes, score!

“—and I was going to double back to Moscow at some point, because I heard there was some kind of underground criminal thing that _could_ be related to HYDRA, but Weez hasn’t called me since that one time a week ago and hey, I get it, I kind of, maybe, technically, fucked up with the arrow but—”

“You’re right, Yellow, he’s cute _because_ he’s dumb, not in spite of it.”

Clint throws his pizza crust at Wade (and by default, at Yellow, too, the little not-visible-to-Clint asshole). “Hey, don’t be fucking rude!”

“We just said you were cute, how is that being rude?”

“You also just said I was dumb!”

Wade snorts. “White says beggars can’t be choosers.”

“I’m not begging for compliments!”

Wade picks up the abandoned crust and eats it. “Next time, we get tacos.”

Clint points a finger at him accusingly. “Don’t change the subject!”

“You never even asked me about my epic love affair,” Wade pouts.

Clint rolls his eyes at the clear manipulation, but let’s it happen anyways. That’s what friends are for, right? “How did The Talk with the love of your life go?”

Wade’s rolled up the bottom of his mask just enough to expose his mouth. Clint doesn’t even glance at the mottled scars mapped out across his chin and neck.

Clint knows there’s something in Wade’s incredibly tragic backstory that explains the mental instability and the scars and the regeneration, but Wade doesn’t ask Clint why everyone aside from Weasel calls him Steve and he doubly doesn’t ask about the number of puckered wounds scattered across his shoulder and his side, that are too small and neat to be made by anything but an arrow.

Wade makes a thoughtful noise. “You know they’re looking for you, right?”

“They?” Clint asks, feigning innocence. 

“They. Them. Those guys.”

“Very clear, thanks for that.”

“You _know_ what I mean, Clint.”

Clint exhales slowly. “Yeah, Wade. I know. Like you said before, everyone and their mother knows.”

“You said Weasel hasn’t called lately?”

“No.”

Wade nods. “Good.” He takes another bite of pizza.

Clint scowls. “Not good. I need to work! I have to feed Lucky! I have to pay rent!”

Wade pretty obviously rolls his eyes, even if his pupils aren’t visible. He talks around his half-chewed mouthful. “Me thinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“Et tu, Brute!”

Wade snorts. “It’s not pronounced like the word ‘brute’, I need you to know that.”

“But you get what I mean regardless, traitor!”

“Only because I became fluent in dumbass so we could have proper conversations. What did you think I was going to say? Weasel already lied for you, and I think Webs knows something I didn’t tell him, because he lied for you too.”

Clint freezes. “He what?”

“That’s what he wanted to talk about. _They’re_ looking for an archer and I didn’t say I did or did not know who they’re talking about, but Webs happened to see the backup bow you put here and I couldn’t–, no. No, I _wouldn’t_ lie, not to him. So I said it belonged to a friend. I was pretty sure he’d relay that information back to the Avengers, but he just… didn’t.” 

He gives Clint an assessing look and Clint realizes he hasn’t seen Wade look at him like that in years. Like Wade’s on a job and he’s ready to do whatever’s necessary to get shit done. Like he’s Deadpool, and not just regular Wade who Clint can beat two out of three times at Mario Kart and will do just about anything you say as long as you start with “I triple-dog dare you”. 

“You need to stop taking jobs.”

Clint bolts up from where he’s sitting. “What! You can’t just—”

“Do you know Webs somehow? Have you ever met him before?”

“I, no? I’ve never even seen the guy.”

“He’s honest to a fault,” Wade says, and he sounds like he’s sharing an incredibly important secret. And truth be told, maybe he is. “Honest, pure goodness. I look up to him, did you know that? And even the boxes like him. He thinks I could be better, and it’s different from how you and Weasel think I am, and I mean, it’s very cool that you two like me despite me being… _me_ , but I also like that he can see good in me. I like it a lot.” He looks down at his gloved hands, as if he’s imagining the blood of the hundreds he’s killed. “I’ve been chasing that feeling for almost a year now. Feeling like I could be good, like it’s a choice and not some stupid destiny or whatever I was thinking for a while. It makes me feel lucid, and for once, I have something I don’t want to lose. That I _can_ lose, if I’m not careful. And because of that, I don’t think, I mean, I don’t want to lie to him and I don’t want him to lie for me. Not even for your sake.”

Clint can only hold eye contact with Wade for a few seconds before he looks away. “I’ll stop taking jobs for now,” he says quietly. “I’ll figure something else out.”

“Thanks, Clint.”

And that’s too sincere and touchy-feely for Clint to deal with so he does what he does best: change the subject (cue jazz hands).

“So he saw the backup bow, did he?” He grins wickedly. “Young man, did you bring a _boy_ home?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny—”

“Come ON, Winston! Am I gonna keep getting whiny texts from you in the middle of the night or does this mean you and Spidey finally kissed?”

Wade grins and the show of teeth is downright predatory. “Oh Francis, you know better than anyone I’m not one to fuck and tell.”

Clint sits up straight and turns his head so fast he gives himself minor whiplash. “YOU ACTUALLY FUCKED SPIDER-MAN?”

“Technically, Spider-Man fucked me,” Wade says smugly.

Clint screams.

*

Bucky is running on a treadmill that is threatening to give up on him before he’s finished his run.

“Don’t you fucking dare, you stupid piece of crap,” Bucky mutters.

“You should be nicer to the equipment, Barnes.”

“Maybe the equipment should be nicer to me,” he says a little too loud, projecting his voice over the whirring of the treadmill’s gears.

Sam hops onto the machine next to his and starts walking at a leisurely pace. “You mad about something?” he asks after a while. He starts jogging.

“No.” Bucky is still sprinting on his machine, which lets out a high pitched whine due to the speed at which he’s going.

Maybe he can use the excuse of exercise for his curt responses — he can pretty clearly see a Talk in his future.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky tries to ignore him, but Sam isn’t having any of it.

“You know Steve won’t shut up even when he runs? Kind of a brag, if you ask me, trying to show off that he’s not out of breath. So, I know you can too. Talk to me, Barnes. What’s going on?”

Perfect. There’s the Talk Bucky was just anticipating.

“Nothing,” he grits out. “Everything is perfect. Perfectly… perfect.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, it sure sounds like it.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he snaps this time. “I don’t need you or Steve or Romanoff tryin’ to babysit me all the god-damn time like I’m ‘bout to go off like a bomb.”

He fumes as he runs, increasing his pace while Sam continues to jog leisurely next to him.

“We’re just—”

“Worried, I get it! I’m not gonna lose my mind and kill someone or go all HYDRA on anyone, so it’s fine! I _am_ fine!”

Sam stays quiet for a little before he starts up again. “Is that what you think we think?”

Bucky wants to scream. “Isn’t it?”

He slams a hand down on the treadmill, which abruptly stops, and he stalks out of the room before Sam can give an answer. Whatever excuses he has to say, Bucky doesn’t want to hear it.

*

“— and so, like, uh… I can’t. Can’t go back to Moscow. Right now, at least. Maybe sometime in the future,” Clint rambles.

Weasel’s on the other end of the line and he lets out an irritated huff. “Wade on your case?”

“Something like that,” Clint says back. “Not that I wasn’t looking forward to shooting someone in the dick or whatever you wanted me to do, but uh. Yeah. Can we just take a pause on the pro boner stuff? I think… I might just need some time or, yeah, you know?”

There’s some rustling on the other end of the phone and then Weasel speaks again. “Can’t believe _Deadpool_ of all people talked some sense into you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said, dude. Wade’s right. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be out and about making my life harder. They’re looking for you.”

“I know!” Clint shouts into the phone receiver. “Everyone has made that very clear to me!”

“Well, duh. Everyone meaning me and Wade, right? Anyways, whatever, thanks for the heads-up, but you owe me, like, three more jobs now. Make it an even five.”

“What! That’s not even! We didn’t—”

The phone call ends, because Weasel’s a jackass like that, but it’s not like Clint has a leg to stand on; getting work from Weasel in and of itself is a huge favor, especially since Clint can’t exactly make a lot of money legally, considering the state of his fake identity.

Oh wow, let’s call it a secret identity from now on, that sounds much nicer. And it’s not _really_ fake, seeing as Clint’s been using his Steve Rogers identity for almost a decade now. 

That means it’s very real. 

Really real, he pinky swears.

*

Bucky and Natasha are going back to Moscow to see if they can find any other leads on their archer, which means that Steve is going to Moscow to make sure nothing happens to Bucky, which means that Bucky is pissed off.

“You’d think the man capable of leavin’ me alone after almost five fuckin’ years of this,” Bucky grumbles as he packs.

“He’s pretty obsessive, isn’t he?”

Bucky throws the knife in his hand before he fully turns and realizes it’s Natasha standing in his doorway. But because it’s Natasha, she ducks in time for the knife to go sailing uselessly over her head.

“Jesus _Christ_ , give me some warning next time you break in without invitation.”

She snorts. “I think the ‘breaking in’ already implies the lack of invitation, don’t you?”

“Whatever. Stop coming in here unannounced,” he says sharply.

“Besides, the whole ‘super-soldier hearing’ was supposed to give you a heads-up,” Natasha says, clearly ignoring him.

“You walk like a ghost, don’t give me that super-soldier bullshit.” 

He doesn’t bother to bring up the fact that he’s damaged goods in the super-soldier department.

Bucky goes to collect the discarded knife and slides it into its sheath before putting it into his pack. “What d’you want?”

“Just curious why you’re getting all worked up over nothing, mostly.”

“It’s not nothing,” Bucky says before he can think better of it. He clenches his teeth. “Punk needs to lay off. Maybe he just needs to get laid.”

There’s a hint of smile on Natasha’s face.

“So, you agree with me? You think if I get Steve laid, he’ll get off my case?”

“I didn’t say I agreed.”

“Yeah, but you almost smiled, which is as good as.” Bucky shoves the last of his equipment into his duffle. “Maybe if I set Stark up with Steve and they finally get over themselves and get together, I’ll owe him, like, three favors less.”

“Three favors less?” Natasha repeats carefully.

Crap.

“It’s a joke, Romanoff, lighten up,” Bucky says.

“Mhm. A joke.” She only hesitates for two seconds before being blunt. “Is this about Howard and Maria?”

He can’t stop himself from wincing at the sound of their names. He also can’t stop himself from hearing that final, desperate plea on that dark night, the nauseating smell of gasoline leaking from the crashed car.

“No,” he says, even though he knows he responded much too late for her to take him at his word. “It’s just a joke.”

“You need better jokes, James,” Natasha says, staring at him blankly.

“Those seventy years of cryo really do a number on a person’s sense of humor,” Bucky says without thinking and almost slaps himself. 

_What the fuck is up with you today?_ He practically yells at himself.

She raises an eyebrow and Bucky just dreads the thought that she’s going to tell someone or he’s going to go back to therapy he doesn’t want or he’s going to have another heart-to-heart with Steve which is somehow subjectively and objectively worse.

“You really need to take a break from avenging.”

He looks up at her, startled. “What? That’s completely out of left-field, you can’t make that kind of decision for me!”

“I’m not making any decision here,” she says. Her arms hang loosely at her sides, her posture open and unguarded. She doesn’t actually have any easily accessible weapons on her either, which just goes to show how far she’s taking this “get Bucky Barnes help” role she’s taken on.

“I’m not quitting.”

“No one’s asking you to quit.”

“ _You’re_ asking me to quit.”

“ _I_ am asking you to give yourself some time off.” She drums her fingers against her thigh. “You’ve been on Avengers missions non-stop since you were cleared for duty.”

Bucky hefts his duffle over one shoulder and tries to stalk off. “We’re gonna be late.”

“You’re not coming to Moscow, James.”

Bucky’s grip on his bag goes slack and he glares at her. “Who said? Was it Steve? You? SHIELD?”

“Actually, this was Sam’s suggestion,” Natasha says.

“What? Why, why would he do that?”

It’s not actually a question, because Bucky knows what kind of work Sam used to do at the VA and Bucky knows his last conversation (if it could be called one) with the man hadn't been particularly stellar.

Okay, who is Bucky kidding, it was extremely erratic on his part. It’s just that he hadn't thought what he’d said would lead to _this._

“He wouldn’t say why, but he was adamant you needed some time to be doing other things, not just going out and beating people up all the time. And no one was going to argue with him, since it wasn’t Steve or me bringing it up.” She almost looks apologetic. “Take a break, James. Go to the park, read a book, do something that doesn’t involve guns for once.”

“I can do that after Moscow.”

“Sure you can, or... you can do it right now. Because you’re _not_ going to Moscow,” Natasha explains slowly, as if he were a child.

Fuck, he really doesn’t want to be sitting around useless when there’s shit he could be getting done.

But the set of Natasha’s mouth makes one thing clear: Bucky isn’t going to be allowed on any Avengers missions, any time soon.

Perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> you can come find me on [tumblr](https://www.13tongues.tumblr.com)!


End file.
